


When in Toussaint

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Drinking - Turned On By, Come as Lube, Consent Issues, Identity Issues, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Physical Fight Leading to Sex, Pre-Canon One Night Stand, Rough Oral Sex, Trying To Determine If Lover Is Secretly A Monster Or If The Clues Are Just Coincidence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-21 03:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: Things start out well. Geralt should have taken that as the first sign of impending trouble.





	When in Toussaint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Getting out of the north turns out to be the right choice – no more mud, death and rotting corpses everywhere. Well, there are fewer of those in Toussaint, at any rate. The chances of the emperor putting a bounty on his head are probably lower the further apart they stay, too, which is also a big part of Geralt’s reasons for leaving with all haste.

He’s been slowly making his way through the countryside, enjoying the beauty, taking some simple, straightforward contracts and every now and then letting his mind drift in the happy memories this place calls back.

The first night in a while that Geralt’s sleeping under a roof is slightly diminished by the inn being packed full, but brightened by the occasion being some wine related celebration, which means barrels of cheap wine. Cheap good wine, since this is Toussaint.

Geralt’s just finished his first bottle of the night, when someone stumbles into him and splashes wine on his boots. He looks up with a sigh, and is met with a dark haired man that looks much too sober to stumble. Behind him, on the other hand, is a man as drunk as a dwarf, who looks to be having trouble staying upright.

“Hey, you, what do you think you’re doing, standing in my way? If it’s a fight you’re looking for, you’ll have it, right here!” half-shouts the drunk obviously looking for a fight, and points at the dark haired man. Geralt’s about to sidestep the brewing fight, extremely uneager to get thrown out of the inn, but then he takes another look at the man. He looks _murderous_ , like he might raze the town and paint the ruins with the drunkard’s blood. The expression smooths away so fast Geralt almost thinks he imagined it, but he steps in anyway.

“How about you go look for a fight elsewhere, hmm?” he says, and turns just so to make sure his swords are clearly visible. The drunk hesitates, and Geralt adds “You’re getting in the way of me getting more wine.” Either his tone of voice is menacing enough, or the drunk just respects wine that much, but he does back away and leave, stumbling his way to the door.

“My thanks,” the man says, and he sounds almost reluctant. “And my apologies,” he adds after a short pause.

“It’s fine, I’m sure my boots have had far worse than some spilled wine,” Geralt says. The man’s turning away already, when Geralt continues with “Let me buy you some wine to replace yours.” He almost curses himself out loud. He has no idea why he suggested such a thing, and to a stranger that doesn’t seem to want any company. Hell, _Geralt_ doesn’t want any company.

The man looks back at Geralt, for the first time looks him in the eyes, and then his gaze trails down Geralt’s form. That’s. Not what he meant, though he suddenly has no idea what he did mean. Before he can clarify, though, the man looks back up.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, in a voice too even to tell if it’s meant to be an insinuation, and extends his hand in greeting. “Dettlaff.”

“Geralt,” says Geralt, and clasps his hand. He can’t really see any way to immediately clarify the situation, so he just proceeds to purchase a couple of bottles of the house wine.

They sit down at a table in the quietest available corner of the inn. Geralt can’t really see how to politely ask if Dettlaff’s planning to go murder the local drunks, so he settles on small-talk. It feels as uncomfortable in his mouth as always.

“So, what brings you to Toussaint? You don’t sound like a local.”

“Neither do you,” says Dettlaff. Geralt doesn’t know how to interpret the intense way Dettlaff watches him, leaning a bit forward, like he’s looking for some tell in Geralt’s face. They’ve only just met, so Geralt doesn’t _think_ there’s any reason he might want Geralt dead, but he’s been wrong about these things before. He hasn’t been in Toussaint in years, though, and it seems unlikely someone would come here looking for him on purpose. Especially seeing as he never told anyone where he was going.

“I’ve come on a personal matter,” Dettlaff continues, and it seems he’s not finding whatever he’s looking for, as his gaze gets a little less intense, and Geralt experiences a brief moment of confusing disappointment.

Dettlaff pours himself some wine and drinks it as easily as water. It makes Geralt wonder about that impressive, almost inhuman glare again. Wine isn’t Mahakaman spirits, though, and in these parts wine might indeed be more common a drink than water.

Dettlaff passes the bottle to Geralt with a charmingly fluid wave of hand, and their palms brush together. Geralt suddenly feels the beat of his blood in his veins very acutely. Dettlaff’s eyes trail from Geralt’s wrist up to his neck, almost like he too can sense it. He draws his hand back and the moment is broken. The faint beat of Geralt’s own pulse in his ears persists, though, along with a mild dizziness.

Seems like _Dettlaff_ has no issue with the thought Geralt offered him a drink as a preface to a proposition. He rather hopelessly tries to resist the knowledge, but can’t in the privacy of his own mind deny, that he’ll go somewhere more secluded with Dettlaff at the slightest invitation.

He pours himself more wine, the better to wash down the urge to admit it out loud.

“Will your personal matter keep you here for long?” he asks, and feels a sudden yet very strong urge to let his forehead fall to the table. It seems he’s lost all ability to talk without sounding like he’s interrogating someone. Maybe he _has_ spent too long wandering the countryside alone. He drinks deeply from his wine and settles in the resigned knowledge that he’s making a fool of himself.

Dettlaff watches Geralt’s neck almost thoughtfully as he swallows. When Geralt finishes his cup in one go, the corners of Dettlaff’s lips turn up in a wicked smile.

“Long enough,” he says, and his focus is very obviously on Geralt’s mouth instead of his eyes.

Geralt puts down his cup and prides himself on keeping his expression unchanged. He watches Dettlaff right back – the curve of his neck, his wide shoulders, the way he seems to look down on Geralt, even though they’re about the same height. The way his eyes seem to flash almost black in the low light.

“Shall we?” Geralt asks, and tilts his head to the side where stairs lead up to rooms.

“Oh, _gladly_ ,” says Dettlaff, with a strange inflection, that makes shivers run down Geralt’s spine. “Do lead the way.” They rise from the table and head up, away from prying eyes.

\--

They’ve barely made it into the room, when Dettlaff’s pushing Geralt against the door with surprising force. Geralt pulls him closer and kisses him as forcefully as he knows how, deep and wet from the start. After the briefest hesitation Dettlaff responds in kind, nips at Geralt’s lips with sharp teeth and grips his shoulders. Even with all the layers of clothes between them, it feels exhilarating to be pressed against another body. Dettlaff tastes like wine and smells of leather and juniper, and, impossibly, _violence_.

The door behind them creaks ominously, so Geralt pushes forward, tries to move them further into the room. For an instant it almost feels like Dettlaff might not move, not even with all of Geralt’s strength. It sends an unexpected wave of heat through Geralt.

Dettlaff relents and steps back, breaking the kiss, and for a moment his eyes look completely black in the shadowy room. Geralt looks him over, and damn, it’s going to take forever to get them both out of their clothes. Who the hell needs that many buckles?

Geralt’s barely taken his swords off his back, when Dettlaff apparently gets tired of waiting and pulls Geralt back by his belt and kisses him again, his tongue tracing along Geralt’s teeth until he gets impatient and tries to bite down. Dettlaff chuckles darkly and it makes Geralt’s knees feel weak for a moment. They need to get to the bed. A sturdy wall, at least.

Dettlaff’s teeth graze Geralt’s neck, bite down hard enough to leave a mark, almost hard enough to break skin. Fuck getting to a bed, Geralt falls to his knees right there with a loud and unmistakably filthy moan. He does it damn gracefully too, and feels only a brief flare of shame at how very easy it was to get him there.

Dettlaff looks down at him with a dark, hungry look on his face.

This is, yeah, one of the main reasons he’s here now, on his knees, with Dettlaff instead of some lovely serving girl. That first, savage look on his face – Geralt’s been wanting that directed at him since he first saw it. Someone that he could pretend could hold him down and _take_.

The burning intensity of his expression is close enough to that murderous look Geralt first saw downstairs. It makes him shiver and reach for Dettlaff’s clothes, try to push them aside to get to skin. His hands feel numb, like in a dream, fumbling and only slightly yielding to his will. Dettlaff chuckles again and undoes his own pants, and damn, okay. His cock is beautiful, only half hard and already bigger than any cock Geralt’s sucked before, not that there have been many. It’s perfect for this occasion. Geralt takes it in hand and it takes only a few strokes for it to harden. He leans forward, half drunk on the scent of arousal already, and licks the head. It doesn’t take long for Dettlaff to get impatient – he slides his hand in Geralt’s hair, takes hold and guides him closer. Geralt opens his mouth and lets Dettlaff push his cock inside.

It’s thick enough that his jaw feels strained, and he has to make effort to keep his teeth covered. Dettlaff doesn’t seem to care much about Geralt’s comfort, just keeps going until his cock hits the back of Geralt’s throat. He tries not to gag too much and pull back a little, but Dettlaff puts his other hand on the back of Geralt’s neck and keeps pulling him further on is cock. Geralt tries to push at his thighs with little success – instead of backing up, he just pushes on and ignores Geralt’s choking and wordless sounds of protest. He stops only when he’s all the way in, Geralt’s lips around the very base. He pauses there and groans when Geralt’s throat keeps constricting around his cock.

Geralt knows he can keep his breath long enough, that it’s barely been seconds, but right then the reflexive panic takes over, and he loses most coordination and control. Fuck, like this he really is as close to helpless as he can get, and Dettlaff could do whatever he wanted to him. The knowledge makes his whole skin feel like it’s suddenly on fire, crawling with a mix of fear and lust. His own cock twitches in his pants, and he suddenly really needs to get his hand on it. He gets his pants open and his cock out, and moans around Dettlaff’s cock in his throat. He’s running out of air, and his skin feels tight, and finally Dettlaff pulls back enough that Geralt can breathe.

Of course, he thrusts right back in with a low growl, and Geralt’s cock twitches in his hand, already wet with precome. Dettlaff starts fucking Geralt’s throat in fast sharp thrusts, and Geralt tries to keep up some kind of rhythm to his own strokes amidst choking on a cock almost constantly.

His tries are about as coordinated as he can make them, which is not at all. Dettlaff's hand in his hair tightens, sharp stings where he's pulling on Geralt's hair too forcefully.

With another growl Dettlaff thrusts down Geralt's throat to the hilt again, holds him there and comes down Geralt's throat. He stays there long enough that Geralt starts feeling light-headed, and when he finally lets go of Geralt's hair, Geralt doesn't draw back immediately. Fuck, he wants to come with a cock down his throat, unable to breathe or resist. He's so close, and then Dettlaff pulls back with a low laugh. Geralt feels his desperate whine is completely justified.

He looks up, and Dettlaff's looking at him with the same burning intensity as before.

"You do look good on your knees," Dettlaff says, and traces his fingers across Geralt's face. The room smells strongly of sex and for some reason blood, and it only makes Geralt more desperate, so close to the edge, but needing more.

"But," Dettlaff continues, and pushes two of his fingers in Geralt's mouth, "I'm not done with you." He says it with certainty, like he's made up his mind about something.

Geralt tries to suck on the fingers in his mouth, so damn close Dettlaff could be reciting imperial law and it would still sound like the most lewd thing Geralt’s ever heard. Which is the moment Dettlaff presses his leg forward, his boot against Geralt’s hand on his own cock. Geralt tries to lean back away, but Dettlaff follows. He keeps pushing until Geralt can't move his hand, has to stop his strokes, until the pressure gets painful enough to draw him back from the edge. He only withdraws his fingers when Geralt tries to bite down.

" _Fuck you_ -"

"Get on the bed, Geralt," Dettlaff says, his voice halfway to a growl and absolutely a command. Geralt hesitates only for a moment before he gets up and on the bed, cursing all the way.

"This had better be worth it," he grumbles. His voice sounds ruined, exactly like he's just been face-fucked.

Dettlaff says nothing, just pulls Geralt's clothes off with dizzying efficiency.

Well. This night has definitely taken some turns Geralt did not expect.

The moment his clothes are off, Dettlaff’s pushing fingers into Geralt, moving his legs to make space between them. Geralt makes a broken sound, but doesn’t protest any other way when Dettlaff adds another much too soon.

It seems like no time has passed at all, when Dettlaff replaces the fingers with his cock, already hard again, and thrusts into Geralt. He’s showing a bit more restraint now than he did with Geralt’s mouth on him, but not by much. Not that Geralt’s in any state to appreciate it – he needs to come, right now, or he might die. Or kill someone.

Dettlaff fucks him with short hard thrusts, leaving Geralt breathless and making him loud, unable to stop the moans spilling from his lips. Geralt’s vision is blurring, and for a moment he thinks he sees Dettlaff’s eyes flashing red as he leans closer. Then he feels the endless buckles on Dettlaff’s coat drag across his chest, one of them catching against his nipple. He has no idea what drives him over the edge – the intoxicating pain or the knowledge that Dettlaff’s still fully clothed – but he throws his head back and finally comes. For a few moments the world narrows down to the flashes of white behind his eyelids and the pulses of pleasure spreading all over from the base of his spine. He’s clenching around Dettlaff’s cock, the feeling of it feeding the shivery waves running through him, making them last longer, when Dettlaff bites him.

Geralt feels the teeth against the side of his neck, suddenly sharper than before, and Dettlaff bites down, breaks the skin and _keeps biting_. Geralt’s barely recovered from his first orgasm, and he’s coming again, shuddering, too hot and too cold and too sensitive at the same time. Dettlaff’s teeth in his neck feel like lightning.

Geralt’s lungs are on fire and everything gets hazy after that. He thinks he sees a fast line of random flashes, people he’s met recently, a woman, a letter, all of it in a red haze. It makes no sense to him. He thinks he hears Dettlaff speak, say “I guess I’ll let you live,” and that makes no sense either. That’s about the last thought he has before he loses consciousness completely.

–

He wakes up with the sun already up, close to noon. It feels like the first damn time he’s slept in in years. Geralt stretches, feels out the soreness in his muscles. The last thing he remembers from last night is-- Fuck. He can’t even remember the last time he passed out during sex.

That’s about when he remembers Dettlaff biting him.

Well, he’s alive, which is arguably a good sign. There’s no wound on his neck – it barely feels bruised when he presses down. There’s a collection of scratches covering his chest and thighs, already almost healed, but nothing else.

His memories of how last night ended are very hazy, so he’s reluctantly ready to admit might be a dream fusing with what little he remembers. Then he notices the few drops of blood smeared on the off-white pillowcase.

 _What the hell?_ He touches his neck once more, and surprisingly, nothing’s changed. He’s still uninjured.

Dettlaff’s probably long gone, or Geralt might have tried to feed him a silver infusion instead of wine. He looks around the room, where nothing’s out of place, except Geralt’s clothes still scattered on the floor. There are suspiciously deep lines gouged in the door, that he hadn’t noticed before.

Fuck. He might have, possibly, had sex with a katakan. A flash of all their non-human forms he’s seen makes him wince. He _really_ hopes he didn’t have sex with a katakan.

Either way, he is never ever telling Lambert or Dandelion about any of this, ever.

–

He asks around that very day, of course, but there have been no suspicious exsanguinations, no unexplained deaths on the full moon. Or there have been - all of them by bruxae or alps. Nothing that sounds like a katakan masquerading as a human.

Geralt takes the bruxa contracts and tries very hard not to think about Dettlaff, and what he might or might not have been.

It works until he finds a lingering bruise, that he doesn’t remember getting, high on the inside of this thigh that very evening. He ends up thinking about Dettlaff very hard, twice.

–

Geralt’s spent so much time taking measurements and discussing materials for a new armour he wants made, that it’s dark by the time he steps out of the armoursmith’s. It takes less than a dozen steps to notice something’s wrong. There are more ducal guards than he’s used to seeing on the streets, and they’re moving with nervous urgency. He decides to follow.

Two streets later he’s determined someone important has gone missing in strange circumstances, but it seems the guards have very little detail on what those circumstances are, exactly. That’s when a shout rings out from a square up ahead. Geralt runs after the guards and catches up with them just in time to see a man – probably the missing person – propped against the pillory on his hands and knees. He sees what look like claw marks before the guards surround the scene.

He’s looking around for any clues and trying to decide how to approach the guard captain with an offer of help, when he notices a black form disappear down a side street. The only detail that he notices are the unnaturally long claws, and it’s enough to send him running after the creature.

He follows it through a labyrinth of side streets and dark alleys towards the docks. Whatever the creature is, it’s fast, so fast that some time into the chase Geralt starts to suspect it’s allowing him to see every turn it takes.

The dark shape finally turns and disappears inside a building. Geralt slows down and tries to listen as he approaches the door. It’s quiet, so quiet the house is most likely empty. The creature is silent, too - means it’s smart enough to hide, which is not good. Geralt draws his silver sword and steps inside the house over what little remains of the door.

The layer of dust and the boarded up windows are the first things he notices. Abandoned. Does the monster live here? Someone would have noticed a monster of that size making its lair in the city.

It’s dark enough inside that he regrets not having any Cat potion on him. Somehow the creature’s managed to leave no trail in the dust, and Geralt has no other way to track it. He sighs and walks on. Always ends up with the monster sneaking up on him, never the other way around.

The first room he enters is empty. The lack of furniture makes the search easier, at least. He’s halfway across it, when he hears a faint sound somewhere behind a closed door on his right. He opens the door carefully, almost soundlessly, but the room behind it turns out to be empty.

“It’s always rats,” he mutters and sighs.

The next thing he knows is the pain as he’s pushed face-first into the door with a lot more force than necessary. He feels a roughly human shaped body against his back, but by the time he swings his sword back at it, the creature is gone. Fuck, what kind of monster can move that fast?

Geralt tries to stay with his back towards a wall while scanning the room for any sign of where it disappeared to. He hears what sounds almost like laughter, low and not quite human, and rounds towards it.

There’s what looks like a man standing in a dark doorway. Geralt can’t make out his face well, but something about it is wrong. That, and there are claws about the length of a shortsword curving down from it’s hands.

Geralt’s trying to calculate the best path across the room, and really missing his Moon Dust, when the creature _speaks_.

“Hmm, you don’t seem nearly as excited to see me as the last time,” it says, and sounds like it’s speaking through a mouth of thrice as many teeth as anyone should have. It knows him and _fuck_ , Geralt has the worst possible suspicion. He looks at the shape of it again, the _familiar_ shoulders.

“Dettlaff.” He doesn’t bother making it a question. There’s no possible way one man should be this unlucky all the time, but here Geralt is. It’s not the first time someone he’s slept with turns around and kills people. Not even the first time they turn out to be monsters, but fuck, he _liked_ Dettlaff. He was really hoping it wouldn’t end this way this time.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Dettlaff purrs, sounding not at all human, and takes a single step forward, into the faint moonlight falling through broken shutters.

Well, Geralt’s pretty sure he’s not a katakan, which is great.

He’s definitely something, though. Something that has a ridged face and needle sharp teeth. And claws. Geralt remembers those hands on his skin, pulling his hair, moving inside him, and it feels a little like a punch to the gut.

“I did wonder if you were here for me,” Dettlaff says.

“You just murdered someone. Pretty hard to miss, the body left in a town square. Might want to work on that.” Geralt takes a few slow steps to the side, keeping his eyes on Dettlaff, trying to find a better angle of attack. Dettlaff mirrors him, and they end up slowly circling each other like panthers before a fight.

Dettlaff’s expression, as much as Geralt can recognize it on a face so monstrous, looks slightly confused. He’s yet again staring at Geralt as if looking for some tell. Geralt’s not going to give him one. He moves forward with the next step, uses his sword like it’s a part of him and strikes. Dettlaff jumps back with a hiss, almost too fast to see, and clutches his slightly smoking shoulder.

It would be a deadly wound on a human, too deep to stop the bleeding in time, but Geralt watches it knit together before his eyes in mere moments with a creeping sense of resignation. “You’re a higher vampire.”

Dettlaff answers by slapping Geralt’s sword out of his hands and pushing him into a wall, all of it too fast for Geralt to fight back. Dettlaff’s hand is at the centre of Geralt’s chest holding him in place. He has no doubt the claws splayed on his chest could cut through his armour easily. It’s mostly reflex to raise his hands and try to push at Dettlaff’s shoulders – it’s absolutely pointless and Dettlaff’s about as immovable as a tree. More, probably.

This close Geralt can’t help looking at Dettlaff’s mouth. His _teeth_ . The blood on the bed. He imagines these monstrous fangs sinking into his neck, remembers what other parts of his were inside Geralt at the time and immediately tries to stop thinking at all. _Not_ the time.

“So, I did get pretty close to being the first witcher to die in his bed,” Geralt says, because what the hell, it’s not like he’s going to be killed any more dead if he talks back.

“You--” Dettlaff starts and for a moment he looks like he might laugh. It’s a strange expression on a vampire’s face. The next moment he snarls and swings his free hand at Geralt’s face.

Geralt tries to turn away from the hit, but he has nowhere to go, not enough slack to avoid anything Dettlaff does. Which is why he’s surprised when he hears the sound of crumbling bricks right next to his face, but feels no pain. He turns his head back carefully and sees Dettlaff’s claws stuck in the wall.

“Might want to work on that as well,” Geralt says, and is completely unsurprised when Dettlaff snarls again and throws Geralt across the room.

He hits a wall hard enough to break it and fall to the floor in another room. The wall’s luckily just boards, no bricks, but it still takes Geralt a moment to get back up. It takes Dettlaff no time at all to push Geralt into another wall, sharp teeth much too close to Geralt’s face for comfort.

“Who are you?” Dettlaff hisses. Geralt feels the words against the side of his face. _Who the hell are you_ , he wants to ask in turn, but somehow he doesn’t think the answer would matter much, even if he were to get one. Dettlaff still smells of leather and juniper, but now the scent of blood is easily overpowering all others. Still, every breath has a familiar scent, and it’s wrecking Geralt’s ability to think.

“Kind of thought you got to know me pretty well, last time,” he answers instead. The bite must have been real, which means the memory flashes were too. He’s never heard of a higher vampire reading someone’s mind through a bite, but he hasn’t heard they can’t, either.

“ _Did I_?” Dettlaff asks, and his low voice makes it clear they’re definitely not thinking about the same part of that night. Or maybe they’re thinking about the same thing after all, because Dettlaff leans even closer, so close that Geralt can feel a hot breath against the side of his neck, too sharp teeth scraping his skin. Geralt tenses and tells himself it’s fine, this already happened once and he survived it.

He can feel his own heartbeat like a stinging pain in his fingertips.

The moment stretches out so long that Geralt’s breaths turn fast and shallow, the faint moonlight in the empty room seems brighter.

“Interesting,” Dettlaff finally breaks the silence. “I expected more of a fight from you. I wonder-” He closes the already slight distance between them and presses his thigh between Geralt’s legs, right against his half hard cock.

Geralt really means to say something pointed about the futility of fighting a higher vampire, something that would be both an insult and a very reasonable explanation. The only sound he can manage, though, is a groan as Dettlaff moves his thigh just right. Dettlaff chuckles darkly, and Geralt realizes he’s unconsciously tilted his head to give Dettlaff better access to his neck. Damn it.

“Oh, you _bastard_ \--”

The rest of his words get lost when Dettlaff sinks his teeth into Geralt’s flesh. Fuck, just for a moment he thought this was maybe going somewhere non-lethal.

A minute ago Geralt was waiting for exactly this, silently cursing Dettlaff for stalling, but now that it’s happening, the pain still overwhelms him. He can feel every needle-sharp point that pierces his skin, and there are too many of them, and they cut too deep. His sight and mind both get hazy.

As he slowly regains some feeling in the rest of his body, Geralt becomes very aware of the hard cock pressed against his hip. He feels Dettlaff’s grip on his ass tighten – when did he even move his hand there – and realizes he’s moving his hips, trying to ride Dettlaff’s thigh to get some friction.

Dettlaff’s teeth move, and Geralt can’t tell, if they’re withdrawing or slicing even deeper. It feels like fire slowly pouring through his veins, starting from the bite and covering his whole body in flames. His skin stings and aches and, fuck, he needs to be touched.

“That’s--” Geralt says, and has to take a couple of breaths to continue, “That’s unfair.” The only answer he gets is a low growl that reverberates against his skin. He grinds against Dettlaff and tries to hook one of his legs around Dettlaff’s waist. That has to be blunt, as far as hints go, because Geralt’s in no shape to form sentences, and he’s ready to beg to be touched. There has to be a bright side to being killed by someone he’s slept with, and right now Geralt really hopes that bright side is more sex.

He has no idea what exactly Dettlaff is doing to him, but just in case he’s reading his mind again, Geralt tries to remember being fucked in as vivid detail as he can manage.

Which is when Dettlaff growls louder than before and removes his many teeth form Geralt’s neck. Geralt feels his mind clear a little, but the burning need for _something_ stays. The wound on his neck tingles the way healing skin does, but about a dozen times stronger. Geralt can feel skin and muscle knitting back together. _How the hell?_

“So fast to surrender to me. You didn’t even try to fight,” Dettlaff says. His face is still a mess of ridges and teeth, but he sounds amused, and fuck this. Geralt pulls him forward by his coat and kisses him with a growl. The kiss tastes of blood and really bad decisions, but Geralt’s not _surrendering_ to anything.

Dettlaff hikes up Geralt’s other leg around his waist without breaking the kiss and starts shredding Geralt’s armour with his claws. Geralt makes a muffled sound of protest and leans back against the wall.

“I liked that armour,” he says, and tries to lick the blood off his lips.

“It didn’t go well with your strategy.” Dettlaff keeps destroying Geralt’s clothes until there’s nothing stopping the mess of leather and cloth from falling on the ground and leaving Geralt’s chest bare.

“Grr,” says Geralt, but it’s not like he doesn’t want Dettlaff’s hands on him. Dettlaff watches his face with that intense look that does things to Geralt’s knees and decision making abilities. He starts to run claws over Geralt’s trousers, pressing down just enough to leave red lines on Geralt’s thighs. Geralt tries to lean into it, get more pressure anywhere, but he has absolutely no leverage.

It takes just moments and once again Geralt’s naked while Dettlaff still has his damn coat on.

Dettlaff leans forward and licks the small stream of blood running down Geralt’s chin from a cut on his lip, and wraps his hand around Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s really damn conflicted about having claws so close to sensitive places, but Dettlaff starts stroking him, and the relief and mounting pleasure drown out the concern. Dettlaff settles on tight and fast, and it only takes a minute or two and Dettlaff’s teeth scraping against Geralt’s neck again for him to come, the fire in his veins flaring up.

Dettlaff strokes him through it, and while Geralt is still dazed from orgasm, lets his feet back down on the floor and immediately spins him around. Geralt barely manages to put his arms up to protect his face as he’s pushed into the wall.

“My turn,” growls Dettlaff, and he sounds more strained than before. Geralt feels fingers – thankfully clawless – press against his hole and push, _fuck_ , his own come into him. It feels better than it has any right to. Geralt doesn’t get to enjoy the absolutely maddening feeling of being stretched open for long, Dettlaff twists his fingers just so and bright flashes explode under Geralt’s eyelids. He’s still too sensitive, and it feels too much like pain.

There’s no way he can move to escape it; all he manages are pained groans, badly muffled against his hands.

Just when Geralt’s getting used to the feeling, Dettlaff withdraws his fingers and replaces them with his cock. With just the head barely inside him, Geralt already feels his muscles protest against the stretch. Dettlaff is somehow impossibly bigger than Geralt remembers, and it almost feels like he won’t be able to take it. Dettlaff is relentless, though, and keeps up a steady pressure until he slides all the way in, hands gripping Geralt’s hips with inhuman strength.

He sets a ruthless pace from the start, fucks Geralt hard enough that he has to hold on to the wall and can’t get a hand free to take his own rapidly hardening cock in hand. He growls in frustration and hears Dettlaff’s answering laughter.

“You like it better like this, don’t you?” Dettlaff growls against the back of Geralt’s neck.”When you can feel it’s a monster fucking you.” Geralt feels one of Dettlaff’s hands slide lower, dragging claws down the inside of Geralt’s thigh. He presses the sharp ends into Geralt’s skin with just enough force that Geralt can’t tell if they break the skin or just leave red welts. Geralt shivers at the feeling of burning lines lining his skin and feels the heat spread until his skin feels too hot all over.

At the first hint of teeth at his neck, Geralt tilts his head without thinking to give Dettlaff better access. “Wanted to hold you down and bite you last time,” Dettlaff says. Geralt can barely understand him through how feral he sounds.

“You _did_ ,” Geralt says, and his own voice comes out only slightly better.

“Not like that.” Dettlaff changes the angle, and Geralt can’t hold back a shout. “Here,” he says, and places the sharp points of his teeth almost carefully high on the back of Geralt’s neck, keeps them there for as long as it takes him to thrust into Geralt half a dozen times. “Wanted to mark you, so everyone would know you’re mine.”

Geralt growls weakly in protest and tries to pretend he isn’t shivering and feeling a pressure mount at the base of his spine.

“Do you think all the other monsters you hunt will see,” Dettlaff goes on like Geralt’s agreed to a damn thing, “and expect you to get on your hands and knees for them, too? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck you, I’m not on my hands and knees _now._ ” But he can’t help but imagine it, and it’s so wrong, even more than what he’s already doing. There are a lot of creatures bigger than humans, and so strong they could throw Geralt around almost as well as Dettlaff. Geralt would never have sex with any of them, but he can feel his cock aching and ass clenching around Dettlaff at the thought.

“Oh, you _would_ ,” Dettlaff says with a low laugh. His every thrust has just enough friction to be a little too intense, and he trails his claws down again and leaves matching lines on Geralt’s other thigh. He doesn’t stop on his way up this time, and continues until Geralt feels the sharp points of claws against his balls.

Geralt’s whole body tenses up, and he comes the moment he feels those claws reach the base of his cock.

Dettlaff’s thrusts get faster and less controlled, like he’s been holding back. He leans over Geralt, their bodies pressed together and once again places his teeth against Geralt’s neck and bites only as hard as he can without breaking skin, right where he said he wanted to leave a mark. Geralt feels a moment of frenzied panic.

And Geralt _leans into it_. Feels his skin break.

The growl Dettlaff makes, as he comes deep inside Geralt, can probably be heard to the other side of the duchy. Geralt wouldn’t swear to it, though, because the moment Dettlaff bites down, his world becomes a bright swirl of colour and sound. He almost passes out again, or maybe he does for a few moments. He comes back to himself when Dettlaff pulls out of him. They’re both on the ground, and Geralt doesn’t remember when that happened. His body definitely isn’t built to come twice in a row with no respite. Or maybe it’s the blood loss.

When Dettlaff moves to get up, Geralt stays lying on the floor and catching his breath. _Fuck_.

By the time he’s recovered enough to sit up, Dettlaff’s already fixed his own clothes and standing by the door. He looks human again, but his charming smile is ruined by the amount of blood on his face. He tilts his head at Geralt and without a word turns into a cloud of red-black smoke and disappears.

“Bastard,” Geralt says with feeling. The back of his neck hurts in a way that tells him it's definitely not healing like the other bites did.

It takes him some time to get his legs working again.

Which is when he remembers the fate of his clothes and swears some more. In the end he has to make his way back to the inn with a stolen sheet tied around his hips. He’s definitely not the first man in Beauclair to end his night that way.

It’s a good thing the night is dark and Geralt is good at not being seen, because he only notices the amount of blood on his face and shoulders back at his room. It’s a lot of blood.

\--

Geralt looks into the man Dettlaff killed. It gets him a lot of well paid work, all of which seems to be the fault of the dead man, so he’s not even surprised, when another clawed up body turns up and it’s someone all the local gangs have dealt with. It’s damn hard to decide who he should be protecting when everyone is a monster.

He’s a little bit surprised when he gets summoned to deal with the murders, especially since Her Grace doesn’t seem to be aware Geralt’s been in Toussaint for some time already.

He is less than amused when he has to fish body parts out of a river. It gets him Dettlaff’s ring. There’s something wrong with how uncomfortably intimate it feels, when Geralt’s had Dettlaff’s cock in his ass and is wearing some kind of messy scar as a mark on his neck.

He is _furious_ when he finds Milton.

–

He doesn’t hesitate to step into the warehouse after Dettlaff this time. Dettlaff, in turn, doesn’t try to hide.

“And you were doing so well with hiding the bodies better,” Geralt says, his voice flat with anger.

Dettlaff doesn’t answer, only glances at the Moon Dust bomb in Geralt’s hand. He steps to the side and so does Geralt. They mirror each other and circle like animals before a fight again.

“What--” Geralt starts, and has to take a deep breath to keep somewhat calm. “What the hell did Milton do to deserve that?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dettlaff says, and stares at Geralt with strange intensity. Geralt feels incensed and about ready to kill him with his bare hands. Except, he’s seen that exact expression on Dettlaff’s face. It’s the same expression he had that first night, like he’s looking for something in Geralt’s face. Like--

“You’re suspicious.” Now that he’s said it out loud, he’s certain of it. “Of me. That makes no--” What. “What?”

Geralt is pissed off and confused, so Dettlaff looking like he's not going to explain any of it, is the only cue he needs to throw Moon Dust at him. Dettlaff responds by throwing him through a couple of walls, and from there things devolve rapidly.

Geralt barely remembers to take his armour off before Dettlaff shreds it.

-

They’re in the middle of the warehouse, because this whole building doesn’t have a single sturdy wall, when they’re interrupted.

“Dettlaff, _listen_ , you don’t--” The strangely familiar voice stops abruptly in the middle of a sentence.

Dettlaff’s hands are on Geralt’s ass and teeth in his neck. It might, to someone not very observant, look like they’re fighting, but Geralt’s chest is bare and swords somewhere by the far wall, on the floor. Both their belts are unbuckled and Geralt’s hands are in Dettlaff’s hair.

Dettlaff withdraws his teeth and changes his face back to human, and Geralt gets his first look at who managed to sneak up on a witcher and a vampire.

“How-- _Regis_?” That’s impossible.

“You know each other,” Dettlaff says, because Regis being alive apparently _isn’t_ a surprise to him.

“We – yes. We indeed know each other, my friend,” says Regis, "As do you, it now seems very evident."

“So, uh.” Geralt tries to come up with something to say. His mind stays unhelpfully blank.

Dettlaff removes his hands from Geralt’s ass, finally, and takes a step back. Yeah, not a chance in hell. Geralt fists a hand in his shirt and glowers at him.

“You are _not_ turning into smoke and leaving me to explain this.” Dettlaff looks like he’s amused by the idea of Geralt even attempting to keep him here against his will. There must be another Moon Dust wherever Geralt's jacket ended up, and he's very tempted to go find it right now. “Grr,” Geralt says, and turns back to Regis, _Regis_ who--

Who is staring at Geralt’s neck, uncommonly silent. On the back of which is the scar Dettlaff gave him.

Which is, of curse, the moment he hears the voices of ducal guards outside.

Geralt takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and deeply regrets ever setting foot South of Vizima.

   


 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I've forgotten to tag something important.


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